Midway Diner

In the middle of Pennsylvania is a diner that goes by the name Midway. The sign glows for miles. A neon siren luring road-weary journeyers to stop for a home cooked meal. The kind of place that has pie. Do not stop. Do not be fooled by the warm americana radiating from the sign.

Inside you will find people. You will initially be encouraged. The waitresses wear 1950s diner uniforms. The pies are covered in glass and elevated on stands. There's even a juke box. They serve liver five different ways but instead of being disgusted you find it quaint. Wholesome. They even serve sweat tea off menu. But look closer. Nobody is eating. The tables are full of large truckers with no food in front of them. It's 9pm and there's still pie. The nostalgia-clad waitress who seems forgetful and grandmotherly cute at first is actually very bad at her job. When she brings your drinks she lifts them up to her nose (millimeters from her beak) and smells them. She can't tell the difference between diet and regular. After an uncomfortable amount of sniffing she tells you she's sick. When you get grossed out she gets mad and assures you she just breathed inward- NOT ON the drinks. The pancakes taste like a YMCA. The turkey dinner is left over from Thanksgiving or made from dehydrated foul. The applesauce is alcoholic and when you tell your bloodhound waitress she says, "I never eat here." Nobody does. Except for weary foreigners fooled by that tricky neon. An asphalt mirage serving pie and liver deep into the night.